


Dr. Ford and Mr. Lee

by Krysawyr



Category: Gravity Falls, Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon), Rick and Morty
Genre: Gen, Gravity Falls Spoilers, I cuss a lot so my stories cuss a lot, Mild Language, over the garden wall spoilers, takes place in the past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-05-05 18:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14624286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krysawyr/pseuds/Krysawyr
Summary: “I was going to ask if you made a decision on this summer?” Sherman said patiently. He was being as understanding as possible, the man had just lost his twin after all.“Oh, uh, yeah. If the kid wants to come out, he's welcome to,” Stan said, “just know there are quite a few anomalies in Gravity Falls.” Sherman chuckled.“Why else would you be out there?” He teased softly. Stan smiled slightly, he wondered what Sherman would think if he knew who he really was. Stanley Pines settling down in one town? He would've laughed at the thought.This follows Stanley after Stanford goes through the portal. It will eventually follow Mabel and Dipper's father.





	1. The Shack

When Stanley arrived at the shack, he wondered if he should even knock. The wind screamed through the trees in the nearby forest, knocking their branches together eerily. An argument started in Stanley’s mind. It was cold, the wind whipped his long hair across his face, and the frozen tendrils of his mullet snapped like whips across his face. Stanley’s sense of self preservation had become skewed by his time on the road, and ever since his time in Montana, he wasn’t quick to trust a creepy old shed again. A loud crack broke Stanley from his thoughts, as a particularly strong gust of wind caused the shack to lean heavily to the side. He pulled in a deep breath of cold air, and barked out a sickly smoker’s cough as the air stung the back of his throat, he could swear his tonsils just got frostbite. Speaking of frostbite, he couldn’t feel any of his appendages.  
“Suck it up Stanley,” he grunted to himself, this was his brother’s house. Ford had asked for him to come up to Gravity Falls, and by God, after a decade, Stanley was ready to oblige.  
“You haven't seen your brother in over ten years,” he said, trying to talk himself out of walking into the wooden death trap.  
“It's okay. He's family. He won't bite,” he said confidently and knocked on the large wooden door. The door swung open, menacingly, Stanley jumped back, and in good time, since he was suddenly in the cross hairs of an old crossbow.  
“Who is it!?” the young man behind the crossbow shouted, “Have you come to steal my eyes?!” Stanley blinked, the crossbow was still real as the cold ass wind on his back, but for a second a weapon pointed at him wasn’t his main focus. He looked at his twin, eye shifting, breath catching in his throat. He looked as paranoid as a politician facing a polygraph test.  
“Well I can always count on you for a warm welcome,” he joked, trying to ease the tension, why the hell would anyone be after his eyes? He wondered if he greeted the mail man like this.  
“Stanley, did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?” his brother asked looking around in the blizzard. As if he could see anything, it was a white out.  
“Eh, hello to you too, pal,” Stanley said awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, he figured his brother would’ve dropped the act when he recognized him. Unless he knew about Stanley’s track record, he had made a lot of enemies. Stanford grabbed his shoulder and dragged him inside. It’s not like Stanley was complaining, he was freezing, but his brother was acting a bit… crazy. Now he was shining a flashlight in Stanley’s eyes, he bat his brother away.  
“What the hell?” he asked, seriously all this time in the middle of nowhere was driving dear ol’ Fordsy bonkers. Did Stanford seriously think he’d showed up high?  
“Sorry, I just had to make sure you weren’t… uh, it’s nothing. Come in, come in,” he said not making eye contact, darting towards the back of the house. He had in fact been checking for drug use. Stanley thought, cursing his parents for spreading such slander. Not that it wasn’t without merit.  
“Uh, you gonna explain what's going on, here?” he asked following his twin into the creepy shack, there was all sorts of weird science stuff lying about, in all levels of disrepair. The only machine he recognised was a Mass Spec, he’d first seen one after getting busted in a drug ring back in ‘67.  
“You're acting like Mom after her tenth cup of coffee,” he said, trying to bring the conversation back to a common ground, it usually worked in business. The young man finally stopped darting about the house and stood mostly still, his 6 fingered hand clutched around a beat up journal. Leave it to the poindexter to keep a diary, he thought.  
“Listen there isn’t much time,” Stanford said, holding onto the journal like he’d birthed the thing, “I’ve made huge mistakes and I don’t know who I can trust anymore,” he said, and turned the head of a skeleton away. Stanley could understand the sentiment, he too had made some made shitty choices and bad friends, but his twin brother wasn’t the sort to get in trouble like he was. What could he have done anyway? He’d been in this secluded shack for the past eon anyway. But being paranoid about a skeleton… maybe the isolation had driven him mad, he heard somewhere smart people were more prone to craziness or something.  
“Hey, uh, easy there,” he said, he was worried now, what if ol’ Fordsy had taken a jump off the deep end? “Let’s talk this through, ok?” he said, looking around for something that could help him.  
“I have something to show you. Something you won’t believe,” he said. Stanley shrugged.  
“Look, I've been around the world, okay? Whatever it is, I'll understand,” he hoped his brother wasn’t in any sort of trouble, but then again, if he was losing his mind, what did he have left? Stan had never been the smart one, and he didn’t wanna start anytime soon. They walked deeper into the rickety house. It didn’t seem old, there wasn’t much mold or anything, but the sounds it made as it shifted and leaned in the wind, made him nervous nonetheless.


	2. Portal

They came to a clean room. It was the only one in the house not overflowing with old sciency stuff. It actually looked quite nice, there was a GE television set that the two would’ve been impressed by back when they were three, a pool table, some sports posters.   
What’s this, a man cave? Stanley wondered, maybe he had a roommate. He decided, but on closer inspection, he found the pool table covered in map after map. Stanford looked around the room, closing the curtains and checking under the table, before walking over to the vending machine. Stanley couldn’t help but watch over his twin’s shoulder as he typed “A-1-B-C-3” into the keypad. There was a whirring noise and the vending machine popped off the wall and opened up to a stairwell. Stanley was speechless.  
“Come on,” Stanford said, he was in a real hurry. Stanley was impressed, even paranoid out of his mind, Stanford could still build like a genius. Guess there was no worry about Stanley becoming the smart one. To put that idea a full six feet under, Stanford lead his twin to the basement room, where a giant triangular stone with Behenian ruins etched around a center hole.  
“There is nothing about this I understand,” he said. Heh, if you saw just the last two sentences I said, back to back, it’d be hilarious. He thought. Stanford jumped right in to explain.   
“It's a trans-universal gateway, a punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension. I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe,” he said as if that meant something, “but it could just as easily be harnessed for terrible destruction. That's why I shut it down and hid my journals, which explained how to operate it,” he said, something in his tone gave Stanley a sense of foreboding despite how utterly ridiculous this all was, “There's only one journal left. And you are the only person I can trust to take it,” he said.   
Stanley was confused, but his brother hardly noticed, shoving the journal into his hands.   
“I have something to ask of you: you remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?” Stanford said.  
Stanley felt his heart skip a beat, warm memories of their days as kids on Jersey Shore, fixing up the old ship -- Stan o’ War -- the good old days. Was Stanford finally asking him to travel the world with him? The numbness in his fingers and toes was gone, replaced by the feeling of happiness, he was happy, he was looking forward to something for the first time in nearly a decade, he no longer felt the black cloud over his head. He felt his wind blown face stretch as he smiled a real smile, not a salesman’s smile, a happy smile.   
“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as ya can! To the edge of the Earth! Bury it where no one can find it!” Stanford said turning away and looking at the massive triangle.   
Stanley felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He coughed, as his throat caught, tightening as tears stung his eyes.  
“That's it?! You finally wanna see me after ten years, and it's to tell me to get as far away from you as possible!?” he screamed, feeling like he was going to go hoarse, or die, he wanted the latter most to be completely honest.   
“Stanley, you don't understand what I'm up against!” Stanford said, his voice was urgent, like he was begging Stanley to understand. “What I've been through!” he said, he had let his guard down now, and it became apparent that he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months.  
“No, no. You don't understand what I've been through!” Stanley growled, “I've been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car!” He was bristling, he just wanted to punch the glasses off his brother’s smug face, “You think you've got problems? I've got a mullet, Stanford!” he shouted, “Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods!” he said waving his hands around to gesture to the giant room they stood in, “Selfishly hoarding your college money, because you only care about yourself!” He growled poking his brother in the chest. Stanford was always like this, Stanley thought angrily, like his problems were so much more than anyone else’s! He lost his scholarship because of a mistake then he was mad, as if going to Backupsmore University was worse than getting kicked outta the house. He’d gotten 12 fucking PhD.s, who gives a shit which school he went to!?   
“I'm selfish? I'm selfish, Stanley? How can you say that after costing me my dream school?!” Ford yelled,   
there he goes again about that goddamned school, Stanley thought.   
“I'm giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won't even listen!”   
Now he’d gone too far! His parents could say something like that, a teacher or two, hell, he even thought it after a few drinks some nights, but when Stanford said it, Stanley wanted to wring a neck!  
“Well, listen to this: you want me to get rid of this book? Fine, I'll get rid of it right now!” He said taking out his lighter and burning the bottom corner.   
“No!” Stanford screamed, as if the fire was burning him, “You don’t understand!” He yelled grabbing the book back. Stanley ripped it out of his hands.   
Why because I’m dumb? He thought venomously.  
“You said you wanted me to have it so I'll do what I want with it!” He said, lighting it up again, a few pages caught flame.  
“My research!” Stanford yelled running for his work, tackling him to the ground and running to the book, but his twin was quicker, and knew all his weaknesses, tripping him like the kids at school used to. “Stanley give it back!” Stanford yelled stumbling to his feet and running after his twin brother and pushing him through the door into the control room and down against a control panel. The computer whirred to life, and electricity began to spit out of the portal. The large room was bathed in the red of the warning lights.  
“You want it back, you’re going to have to try harder than that!” Stanley teased meanly, holding the book up out of his reach and pushing him down away from himself. “You left me behind, you jerk! It was supposed to be us forever, you ruined my life!” He felt like breaking something, Stanford got a hold of the book and pulled his brother down with him to the floor.   
“You ruined your own life!” Stanford yelled, kicking his brother off of him pushing him against a panel. Stanley screamed out as a symbol was burned into his back. He could smell the scent of his own flesh burning as the skin of his back bubbled and sizzled under the heat. He screamed, wiggling free, out from under his twin’s boot, and fell to the floor clutching his back.   
“Stanley! Oh my gosh I'm so sorry!” Stanford said, suddenly seeing the light as his brother received a third degree burn, “Are you alr-” He started, but Stanley stood up and punched him in the face. He was seeing red. Stanford fell backwards, tripping over a lever he’d built into the center of the floor. The portal was alive, a bright blue light shining through from the other side. Stan stomped forward, he wanted to show his twin what real suffering was, he was livid.   
“Some brother you turned out to be.” He spat, face to face with the man who had once been his best friend, “You care more about your dumb mysteries than your family? Well then YOU CAN HAVE 'EM.” He said shoving the journal into his brother’s arms, knocking him back a few steps in the process. Stanford was caught in the light from the portal and began to float up towards the Center hole, “Whoa, whoa, hey, what's going on? Hey, hey, Stanford-” Stanley didn’t think it actually worked!  
“Stanley! Stanley, help me!” Stanford screamed, he was getting pulled up, arms flailing, eyes wide as he tried to grab onto anything to try and get away from the damned portal.   
“Oh, fuck! what do I do?!” Stanley cried as he ran towards the portal.  
“Stanley! Stanley!” Stanford screamed, trying not to look back as the portal began to devour the back of his coat, making a horrifying sound as if it was swallowing him whole, “Do something! STANLEY!” He screamed bloody murder and threw the book at his brother. As he was pulled through the portal there was a blinding flash and the ground rumbled as if the earth itself had eaten a bad meal.


	3. Man of Mystery

When Stanley opened his eyes The portal was off, the humming was gone, replaced with an eerie quiet, but the symbols still glowed blue.   
“Stanford?” Stanley called out cautiously. He saw a pair of glasses fall the the basement floor. “Stanford, come back! I-I DIDN'T MEAN IT!” He ran up to the bottom of the portal and pound his fists against it. Hoping, praying that he’d come back. The lights flickered off as the last bit of fuel was used up. He ran to the lever.   
“I just got him back! I can't lose him again!” He yelled at the machine as if it might help, “Ah, come on ya piece of shit! STANFORD!”   
He fell to the ground tears welling up in his eyes as he slid to the floor trying not to curl up and die right there on the floor. 

When he finally climbed to his feet he grabbed the book and glasses and walked upstairs. He slammed the vending machine shut and pushed all the maps off the pool table. He didn’t even get a chair, just opened to the first page and started reading. He didn’t know where the hell his brother was, he wasn’t even sure if he was anywhere at all, but he refused to believe the triangular portal might have scattered his brother’s atoms across the room, frying him like a fly in a lamp. He just stuck his nose in that book, reading to forget, reading to learn. He was becoming his brother. It was dark by the time he’d finished, easily 2 AM. He’d gone through two boxes of tissues, he could hear his brother’s voice in each entry, he recognised the excited young man that was searching the woods for anomalies like himself. The words scratched in the journal were more familiar to Stanley, more like the Stanford he’d grown up beside, than the paranoid man who’d answered the door with a crossbow. The last page though, it made Stanley curse and smile, tears in his eyes. “continued in journal #2.” It was just like Stanford to end on such an abrupt note. Stanley realised he’d never said goodbye to his twin, not ten years ago when he was kicked out, not earlier that night when he lost him to that goddamned portal. He read the journal over and over, finding himself closer and closer to laying down, until finally he fell asleep. He didn’t wake up for an entire 13 hours, apparently the fight with his brother, and the emotional drain the loss of his brother exhausted him. When he climbed to his feet, he was rudely reminded of both when his shoulder took to complaining. It felt like he’d been through hell and back, every bone creaked, every wound throbbed, and every muscle ached, including his heart. He thought about laying back down, but a growl from his stomach denied him the bliss of sleep. He realized he had no idea where anything was in the old shack. He took a trip around the house (tripping for real a few times). He found the kitchen on the second lap around the shack, it was a weird house, no surprise Stanford liked it. He patched up his back wound and grabbed a sandwich then headed right back to work. 

Stanley spent weeks reading and re-reading the journal, and tried everything he could think of to try and get the portal back on, but with each failure, it simply cemented the fact that he needed the other journals. He didn’t sleep more than 4 hours a night, and he was starting to burn out. By the end of the month he had no food left. He decided to go into town. Luckily the storm had passed, it was still snowy, but he’d patched up his old stained maroon jacket. He headed to Dusk 2 Dawn, a convenience store. 

Three teenagers were dancing around out front with a boombox, Stanley didn’t understand teenagers anymore, that was such a boring waste of time. The store was surprisingly packed, it seemed the whole town was in there at once. He pulled his hood up and grabbed a loaf of bread. The woman at the counter was a kindly old woman with a sweet smile.  
“Just the bread, then, there, stranger?” She said, her accent slightly Canadian, “That'll be 99 cents.” Stanley guessed Oregon was north enough for them to practically be Canadians. He pulled all the contents of his pocket out. All he had was a sugar packet from a coffee he’d bought back in Idaho, a paperclip he always kept on hand (in case of handcuffs), and a Mexican peso (that one was a long story). He cursed himself for being so dumb as to forget money.   
“Hey, that's no stranger. That must be the mysterious science guy that lives in the woods!” a brunette said, noticing him from the aisle. Stanley cursed under his breath and tightened his hood, as a crowd gathered. Apparently this was one of those nosey small towns.   
“Uh, n-no, you’ve got the wrong guy,” he said, he really didn’t need the reminder that his brother was gone, and this was quite the reminder. You’ll get him back, he told himself.   
“I've heard strange stories about that old shack,” a teenager said naisily,  
“Yeah! Mysterious lights and spooky experiments,” a black kid said, he was some sorta cop in training, Stanley wondered what a black guy was doing this far out in the middle of Oregon, the state didn’t have the best track record with his sort after all.   
“Gosh, I'd pay anything to see what kind of shenanigans you get up to in there,” the old man behind the counter chuckled.   
“Oh, me too!” The brunette added, “Do you ever give any tours?”   
“No. Really I–” he looked down at his hand, he didn’t know how else he could pay for food, let alone a whole “Get Stanford Back Expedition.” He sighed, “Yes, I do give tours!” his salesman grin fell right into place, these folks were dumb as a pile of hay, “Ten... nah-no... fifteen bucks a person!” he shouted, the crowd cheered, holding out money as if he were a celebrity. What is this, a cartoon? He thought, mentally patting himself on the back for his quick thinking. He was quite good, but all his celebrating made him nearly miss the next thing the woman would say.  
“Sir! What did you say your name was, you man of mystery?” She asked, excitedly.   
“Oh, uh, Stan...ford. Stanford Pines,” he said looking away, he felt like he was graffitiing his brother’s grave, taking the money to buy the bread.   
“Oh boy!” The woman giggled, the crowd started chattering amongst themselves as Stanley paid and walked out of the convenience store, the crowd of excited people in tow.


	4. Gone Hunting

When everyone had left Stanley, now Stan, counted his money. This was a good gig, probably the best he’d had, and the most legal, beside the metal detecting he did on the beach as a 16 year old. He decided this was his new job. He cleaned up the shack, in hopes that not only would it be good for business, but also for finding the journals perhaps. When he got all the science stuff downstairs he started setting up the upstairs for living in, and for touring people through (separate sections of course). 

It was a relatively sunny day for an Oregon winter when he set off to go hunting. He’d read up on pamphlets during his travels and it seemed people, especially the dumb one in towns like this, liked weird dead animal things, that are “punny.” So he took his brother’s journal, crossbow, and map, then headed out into the woods to catch some rabbits and deer for Jackalopes and maybe some of the creatures Stanford was going on about in his journal, and besides, he really needed to get out of that shack, or the “Murder Hut,” as he’d named it. The idea really spawned from his own feels of guilt about his brother, either way, he told himself it was a placeholder.

The woods was a quiet peaceful place, there was hardly a sound as he trudged through the snow, only the crunching of his footsteps, it was so cold out, that the snow was of the crunchy sort, flakes so small they were like sand. Stan missed the feeling of the sand between his toes. His mind was the sort that wondered, he’d never been able to focus, not like Stanford could, he could study for three tests back to back for hours straight, course, Stanley never knew why he even bothered studying, the only times he ever got less than 100 was when the teacher had the wrong answer. 

Stan thought about the seashore. He’d always loved the sea, he was practically raised by it, Stanford and he were always out on it, sun, rain, sleet, the seashore was their home. It was away from their mother’s pathological lies and the heartless rules of their father as he was always working at the family pawn shop. Their big brother Sherman was the only good egg in their family, other than Stanford of course, as far as Stanley had been concerned. Sherman always tried to keep them away from their father’s rage, and often became the whipping boy for all of Stanley’s tomfoolery, since he wouldn’t let Philbrick near the twins, well, until he was drafted into the war, and the man kicked Stanley out. 

Stan was lost in thought and quickly found himself lost in real life too. He was sure he’d seen the same stump three times, but the sun had been to his left all day. He was confused. This side of the forest was quieter too. He noticed. He bit his lip. Then he saw a shadow cross in front of the sun. He didn’t know what to do. He considered running, but figured he’d just get more lost. He turned around to face the creature. To his surprise, said creature was, in fact a giant bat-lizard creature. He raised the crossbow, arms shaking, and aimed. The lizard bat cocked its head looking at Stanley like a confused dog, and Stanley lowered the weapon for a second, thrown off by the way it acted. The creature took his stalling to its own advantage and swooped down, grabbing the crossbow in its talon feet.   
“Holy Shit!” Stan yelled, collapsing to the ground.   
He fumbled around in his pockets, flinching as the bat-lizard thing threw the crossbow at a tree, where the bow snapped, flinging the string and dropping the arrow. The creature was flying around towards him again, he fumbled around with the journal, the only thing the entry stated was what it looked like and how to find it.   
“Goddamnit Sixer!” He cussed, ducking down and pulling out his handgun, flipping around to lay on his back, he shot twice at the beast as it flew away.   
He hit wing and back, but the beast simply turned his way, angrier than before. He shot twice more, a bullet flew straight into the beast’s mouth, and the other hit the shoulder. It fell from the air, seeming to trip and somersaulted forwards until it was face down in the snow, breath raspy as it twitched. Stan stumbled to his feet and stood over the creature as it lay bleeding in the snow. He looked away as he shot it once more in the back of the head. He fell to his knees in the snow, blood was everywhere. Around the bat-lizard thing, drops around the area from the first few shots, and a bit more in the snow from where his back had started bleeding again. He lay back in the snow. There was just so much death. The metallic scent of the blood was so blinding that all he could see was red, he thought of Stanford.   
“No!” he said, “Ford’s fine, I’m going to get him back!” He said. He had to stay here, work on the portal, the Murder Hut would be his source of income, he just had to get rid of his past. He was Stan Pines now, Man of Mystery, Stanley was dead. But he had to make it more convincing. He looked at his gun. Of course, he thought. He decided he was going to fake his death. But first he had to get this bat-lizard back to the house. He grabbed the crossbow and put the strap over his arm.   
“Alright then let’s get you home.” He said lifting the wing of the creature. It was surprisingly light, but he assumed it had to be if it were to fly around like that. 

Once he got it home (after much grumbling about Stanford’s dumb map) he dragged it over to the kitchen. There was a chest freezer in the back. It had a collection of dead things. Stan added the giant body of the lizard-bat and sat on the freezer to close it so he could lock it shut.  
“Alright.” He said, “Let’s get to reading.” He knew he’d seen a taxidermy book somewhere. He headed over to the vending machine. He’d stored all of his brother’s stuff downstairs, well all but the weird eyes and brains in jars, those were the first additions to the Murder Hut. The book was buried under a pile of washing machine parts. He hurried back upstairs. He didn’t want to look at the portal unless he was trying to fix it, right now, by making taxidermy monsters, he felt like he was beseeching his brother’s name.  
“You have to pay the bills somehow.” He told himself, and headed to the pool table. He’d pulled up a chair last week, and the pool table had become his “figuring shit out spot.” 

After reading up on some taxidermy techniques, Stan got straight to work. It was no surprise to find all the chemicals he needed in the medicine cabinet his brother had apparently repurposed. He started out small, with a three legged rabbit his brother had caught. All was going fine until he got to the head, he accidently popped it right off. He cursed his clumsiness, but decided to keep going with the rest, he’d heard about a guy who’d sowed a monkey to a fish to make a mermaid once, and he figured he could put something else on the bunny’s shoulders. 

Once he was done mixing and matching body parts, and everything in the freezer was stuffed he got to displaying the creatures. His clothes smelled like BO and Borax and there was absolutely no escaping the isopropyl alcohol.


	5. Goddamn Eyebats

For weeks he set up the Murder Hut, until it was finally presentable. Only then did he don a fez and head to town, posters in hand.  
“Hi there Mr. Mystery!” The brunette called out in seeing him, her eyelid was still closed tight.   
Oops, he thought. He rushed away, not wanting to get chased out of another town. From now on, he decided he was going to show fake, non-dangerous stuff. When he got to the center of town he posted the flyers for his new attractions. It wasn’t long before nearly every sign had a small crowd gathered around it. Stan rolled his eyes at how blatantly idiotic everyone in this town was. You should feel right at home, The real Stanford’s voice teased in his head. He turned around. Man, this town really gave him the creeps. He headed back to the shack. He didn’t want to talk to these crazy folks unless he was getting paid to. 

The road was a long, winding, barren one. It was cold, but the air was mostly still. Stanley wasn’t sure if he’d rather the wind. He felt like every thumping creak of the frozen trees as they bent under the weight of the snow in their barren branches, was due to some sort of monster. After reading his brother’s journal, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was. He gripped his hand gun in his pocket. The road seemed to get longer with each step. He stopped for a second, he could’ve sworn he’d heard the flapping of wings. He hoped it wasn’t another lizard-bat thing. He looked around.  
“Hello?” he called, voice cracking slightly. The flapping became more urgent, Stan looked around. “Who’s there?” or what’s there. He added in his mind.   
Suddenly, out of the woods flew several bats. Only, no, a double take told Stan they weren’t bats, but eyeballs with bat wings. The pupils were wide open, oil-slick, and staring, the irises all sorts of color from one to the next. The scleras were scratched and covered in red, throbbing veins, a long optic nerve flying behind them like a blood soaked jet trail. They flapped around his head and he swatted at them, unsure of what he should do. He finally landed a punch into the iris of one of the eye-bats. It was so forceful, the lense shot right out the front, aqueous spitting out like a popped pimple.   
“Ew, ew, ew!” Stan yelped, running down the road towards the shack.   
The wind picked back up, with it carrying the putrid scent of some sort of skunk ape, and the howls of all manner of canines (along with what sounded suspiciously like a howler monkey). When he got home he closed the door immediately and locked the 12 bolts.   
“Ok, time to cower behind a door.” Stan said, then realized he talked to himself a lot. He needed a friend. Right on cue someone knocked in the door. He sighed and unlocked all the bolts, looking through the peephole he fixed his fez and readied his best scammer’s smile.   
“Welcome to the Murder Hut.” He said opening the door. The crowd squealed with excitement, or at least the kids did. 

The tour group was comically excited to see the stuffed creatures. Stan wondered how dumb they were, they too lived next to the same crazy woods that he lived by, why were they acting like they’d never seen a five winged pigeon? But whatever, if he was getting money, he was satisfied. He still had two things to figure out though, how to fake his death, and how to get his twin back. 

The first was far easier than the second, but still next to impossible. He decided to shut down the Murder Hut for a week and traveled out to South Dakota on a greyhound. He cut his hair short, bought a Ford Pinto in a small town and dug up a grave. He set the fingerprints and face of the body on fire as an added precaution and tossed a few of his licences into the glove compartment. He threw the car into reverse and set the dead guy’s foot on the gas, slamming the door as quick as he could. It sped backwards into a tree and, true to its legacy, the car exploded into flame.  
“Nice!” Stan laughed, watching the thing go up in flames. “Now for my hands.” He said, heading back into town. The crash was already on the tongues of the locals, he hurried back to Oregon. The phone call came later that week.

“Stanford?” His father’s gruff voice said.  
“Hi there, Pa, I’m a bit busy, actually.” He said, trying to mimic the paranoid state his brother had been in before he’d fallen through the portal.   
“Stanley’s dead.” He said bluntly.  
“What?” He was genuinely shocked, he hadn’t expected the man to be so outright. “You’re kidding.” He said.  
“I don’t kid.” The man said. “The funeral’s back home.”   
“We spreading his ashes?” He said stiffly, trying to hone his own feelings about his brother’s disappearance. He’d written a will a while back when he and his friend Rick Sanchez decided to get into the drug trade down in Colombia, and in it he’d asked for his ashes to be spread in the ocean he and his brother promised to sail.   
“No, closed casket, he’s burnt to hell. Next Wednesday, 10:00, at the house.” He said and hung up. Stan felt unreasonably sad that his will wasn’t going to be followed. He’d spent 5 hours working on it, he decided he simply resented the waste of his time. Now, he had to figure out how to make sure he could pass as his brother for sure.


	6. Surgerize

Stan’s master plan to make it look like he was his brother, was probably stupid, everyone always said his plans were dumb. He was going to fake a surgery. He grabbed Grey’s Anatomy, and some hard liquor, and headed to the bathroom. There he took a scalpel from the cabinet and some suture. His mind was wondering as it does when he’s nervous. Last time he’d needed to suture anyone, was actually in Colombia. 

//“Son of a bitch!” Stanley yelled, ducking behind a rundown pick up to hide from the gunfire. His was younger, and far less world worn. He wore a red and white football jacket, brown hair slicked back. A skinny guy was crouched next to him, stinking of alcohol and motor oil. He had tight black jeans, combat boots and a black crop top, like he had something to prove. His hair was completely untamable, he’d given up on it years ago and had let the dark mess grow wild. He was completely unfazed by the approaching gunfire and took a swig from his flask.   
“Come on, Lee. Just take it easy, Stanley. W-w-we’re gonna be good.” Rick said, messing around with some random shit he’d found behind the mechanic’s a few yards back.   
“Where’s my goddamned money!?” a rather loud thug yelled shooting towards them.   
“S-suck on this, y-you over-sized... beer keg!” He yelled jumping around to shoot the weapon he’d made at the thug. The gun, however, simply sputtered and lost a screw. “Shit, where’s that go?” Rick said crawling around on the floor.  
“Rick! Get back here!” Stanley yelled, pulling him out of the way, only a second too late.  
“Dios todopoderoso, eso duele!!” Rick screamed as a bullet lodged itself in his shoulder.   
“Come on!” Stanley yelled, dragging his partner in crime down the alleyway, as he continued messing with the weapon.   
“I-I-I got it!” Rick shouted and the thing in his hands started glowing and hissing. It was just in time too, the thug was right behind them.   
“Don’t kill hi-” Stanley started to say, but Rick had already vaporized him.  
“One use only.” Rick grumbled tossing the smoking weapon aside.  
“Jesus, Rick, I thought you were going to stop killing people!” Stanley said.  
“I thought you were going to stop being a pussy!” Rick replied, taking a swig from his flask. They’d slowed to a walk as they walked out onto the road.   
“C’mon, we gotta patch you up.” Stanley said, they were getting quite a few looks. Rick stopped, looking at him expectantly. Stanley groaned and threw his jacket at him.  
“Wh-what a good friend.” Rick teased, skipping over and leaning over his shorter friend.  
“Don’t push it, buck-o, I’ve still gotta get that bullet outta ya.” He said. //

Stan chuckled to himself, Rick was quite the dickhead. He sat down on the edge of the tub. The book was open to the index, looking at every place it talked about hands. He didn’t know exactly what they meant by “Abd. Min. Dic.” or even “ulnar” and “radial,” but he gathered enough to see where he should cut to fake the surgery, as well as how much it’d hurt. He took the scalpel and began cutting. Blood ran down his arm, dripping off the tip of his elbow. The taste of iron was in his mouth, the pain throbbing through his nerves, he took another swig from the Whiskey bottle. The scent of his own blood was quickly covered by that of alcohol. Alcohol is a blood thinner, stupid. He heard Stanford’s voice say.   
“I don’t give a shit.” He grumbled, pulling the 3-O expired catgut suture through his muscle.


	7. Nobody Likes New Jersey

The trip to New Jersey was torturously long. He’d brought the map and journal with him, hoping maybe he’d find some sort of clue as to where the other journals where. All he found was the arm of the guy next to him, which kept slipping onto the map while he slept. When he finally touched down in New Jersey he was stopped by security.   
“Stanley Pines, you’re banned from New Jersey.” A no-nonsense sorta guy said.  
“You probably don’t know yet, but Stanley’s dead.” Stan told the man. The man stared at him,   
“I’m going to give you five seconds to come up with a better excuse, and, what’s more, here’s a hint, medical emergency is the only real excuse.” The man said.   
“No, no,” He said pulling his brother’s licence from his pocket. “I’m Stanford Pines, Stanley was my good for nothing brother.” He said.   
He wondered if Stanford had to go through this all the time. It took another hour and a half, but finally Sherman came to vouch for him. The ride to the family home was awkwardly silent. Sherman and Stanley got along well, but if Stan was to pass for Stanford, he had to act a bit more cold to his big brother.   
“So Bertie’s nearly 13 now.” Sherman said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.   
“Oh yeah? How’s he doing?”  
“He’s good… look, Stanford.” Sherman said, looking at his brother. “Stanley’s accident got me thinking, we’re… we’re all too mortal.”   
“Of course we are, the body starts decomposing long before we’re even dead, Macular degeneration, arthritis, you don’t have to tell me we’re mortal.” Stan said, it was something Stanford had said to him when they were teenagers.   
“Right, and… well, Bertie’s hardly spent any time with you.” Sherman said. Stan bit the inside of his lip.  
“What are you proposing?” He asked.  
“Why don’t you let him come out to Gravity Falls for the summer?” He asked, “Spend some time with you?” He said. Stan was actually decently intrigued by the proposition. He had hardly even met the little guy.   
“I’ll think about it.” He said. He had to figure it out. Stanford would probably say no and be all paranoid, but Stanley really wanted to spend some time with his nephew. 

The rest of the ride was awkwardly silent. Sherman tried starting a few conversations, asking about Stanford’s research, Stan grunted a few vague replies and just looked out the window. When they got to the family home, Stan was surprised to find the family pawn shop, downstairs from the homestead, was closed. In his entire lifetime, the shop wasn’t closed once, not even for Christmas. The windows and mirrors were covered by thick white curtains.   
“Good of you to finally join us.” Philbrick said, he was sitting on a chair, newspaper in hand. The shop was nothing like Stan remembered, the shelves were all moved to the back, a few rows of chairs in their place. The cash register had been moved off the counter, to make room for a cheap wooden coffin.   
“You know how it is with airport security.” Stan shrugged.  
“Oh, I do wish they’d leave you alone.” His Ma said.  
“Well the will now.” His Pa said, standing up. Stan looked away.  
“Dad!” Sherman said, looking over at his little brother. Stan shook his head and sat in one of the chairs near the front. He fixed the glasses he’d borrowed and flipped the collar of the trench coat back up.   
“Where’s your wife?” Ma asked Sherman.  
“They’re on their way, they wanted to walk.” He said.  
“Well tell ‘em to hurry up, I gotta open the shop back up.” Pa grumbled.   
“He’s just sore since his stock is down 5%.” Ma said.  
“No it ain’t you lying bitch!” Philbrick yelled.  
“That’s what you told me!” She yelled back.  
“2%! I said 2%, and it ain’t my stock!” The man yelled back. Stan stood up and walked over to the window. Moving the curtains, he looked outside in hopes of spotting Sherman’s family.   
“You ok little bro?” Sherman asked walking over.  
“I’d forgotten how much they argue.” Stan said. Sherman chuckled quietly.   
“Yeah, that’s why Mary didn’t wanna come over early.” He said. A half smile creeped onto Stan’s face.  
“Ya know… you’re right.” He said, looking at his brother. “Ever since I got that call from pa… The ol’ shack’s felt emptier.”   
“What’re you saying?” Sherman ventured. Stan looked back out the window.  
“Oh look, your family.” He said, changing the subject quickly.   
“Yeah…” Sherman said, watching Stan head to the door to let them in.  
“Uncle Stanford!” Bertie smiled hugging Stan around the waist.   
“Oh, uh, Hey there... kiddo.” He laughed awkwardly.   
“Did you find any new creatures?” Bertie asked, jumping up and down excitedly.  
“Bertie, leave your uncle alone, he’s in mourning.”   
“Nah, Shermie, don’t worry about it.” He said smiling slightly, and kneeled down. “You’ll never believe it, but I actually just caught a bat-lizard.” He said, handing the boy a photograph of the stuffed creature.   
“Cool!” Bertie said snatching up the photograph.  
“Alright, everyone here? Let’s get this thing started.” Philbrick said standing up and folding his newspaper. “Stanford, are you going to say something?” His tone of voice made Stan think someone was forcing him to have this funeral.  
“I, yeah, sure.” Stan said walking to the front. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. He debated taking the trench coat off, but decided against it. “I um, I had something prepared, but…” He saw a young man quietly sneak into the back row of seats. His messy black hair was slicked back with hair gel, but the effort wasn’t enough to keep his mane of hair down in the back. His eyes were out of focus, and he was noticeably drunk. He wore a black crop top, skinny jeans, and combat boots, like he had when Stan last parted with him.   
“Get on with it, boy.” Philbrick said.  
“Dad.” Sherman said sternly.  
“Right, sorry.” He said, “Stanley Pines was my twin brother.” He said, “he was my best friend and my worst enemy.” He continued, he wasn’t sure what his brother would’ve said for real. “I don’t know what he’s been up to the past few years, but I certainly know it must’ve been right up his alley, based solely on the fact I can’t fly anywhere.” He said, chuckling quietly, looking at the coffin, he wiped a tear away and straightened his glasses. “I wish we’d made up.” He said, “I wish he wasn’t gone, and we were kids again, fixin’ up that damn boat on the beach.” He said, tearing up thinking of Stanford. “I’d give anything to hear just one more taunt, for him to punch my shoulder one more time. He was so young.” He shook his head looking down. “I hope he’s playing pirates up in the stars.” He laughed, wiping his nose. He nodded, “Sorry, I must’ve caught a cold or something.” He said, quickly walking to a chair sitting down. Sherman rubbed his back reassuringly. Philbrick turned on the radio and some old fashioned jazz song came on. The family walked up one by one to say goodbye to the random dead guy in the coffin. 

Once they’d all finished and were sitting around talking, Rick stumbled up to the coffin. He held out his flask, leaning heavily on the cheap coffin.  
“Real nice fam’ly ya got there, Lee.” He grunted, patting the coffin, “Hope you’ve got a ton of coke up there, buddy.” He said then laughed to himself. He stood up straight and nodded smartly, composing himself a bit. “Well you owe me-e 20 bu-urp-bucks, Lee.” Rick said to the casket. “I lived the longest, I-I-I won the fucking bet.” He said, nose running.   
“Who the hell are you?” Philbrick asked, walking over, “What the hell are you doing in my house.  
“Sayin’ goodb-urp-bye to an old friend.” He said, holding up a flask and taking a long drink.   
“He wasn’t friends with riff-raff like you!” Sherman yelled at the skinny young man.  
“Gubba nub nub doo rah kah” He shrugged, drinking again and walking out, he stopped when he saw Stanley. He narrowed his eyes. Stanley, bit his lip. He wanted to tell the young man.   
“Here.” He said, “You said he owed you 20 bucks.” He said. Rick furrowed his unibrow, he saw the scar on Stanley’s sclera, the one he’d caused with a radio antenna when they were trapped in a trunk.  
“Lee Pines.” He muttered smiling and shaking his head. “You’ve finally done it.” He said, taking the 20 and walked out.   
“Who the hell was that?” His mother asked.  
“No idea.” Stanley said, watching his old business partner walk down the street.  
“What happened to your hands?” His mother asked softly, noticing at the scars on the sides.  
“I’m tired of everyone making fun of me ma.” He said quietly. His mother looked at him, tears in her eyes.   
“Stanford-” She started.  
“Ma, can you do me a favor?” He asked quietly.  
“Yes, anything, what do you need?” She asked. She didn’t want to lose him too.  
“Can you call me Stan?” He asked. The woman, caught a sob at the back of her throat, trapping it she forced it back down into her lungs, where it scratched away at her throat. Her eyes stung and burned.  
“Of course.” She said, voice cracking. Stan wasn’t really in the mood for talking after that, but he figured Stanford wouldn’t have either. He headed to the back and started reading out of the journal. He’d been penciling in a few notes here and there ever since he headed out into the woods. He’d been looking for clues in the book for where the next journal might be, but being the “dumb twin” he didn’t think he’d be able to figure it out himself. Sherman walked over.  
“Hey little bro, whatcha got there?” He asked, Stan jumped.  
“God, don’t sneak up on me like that Shermie!” He said slamming the journal shut.   
“Why’d you get them… removed?” He asked, referring to his extra fingers.  
“I told ya, I’m tired of getting made fun of.” He said.   
“Stanford-” Sherman started, he worried he was becoming self-destructive due to his grief.  
“Stan.” Stan interrupted.   
“What’s wrong?” Sherman sighed.   
“Nothing. What do you want?” Stan snapped.   
“I was going to ask if you made a decision on this summer?” Sherman said patiently. He was being as understanding as possible, the man had just lost his twin after all.  
“Oh, uh, yeah. If the kid wants to come out, he's welcome to.” Stan said, “just know there are quite a few anomalies in Gravity Falls.” Sherman chuckled.  
“Why else would you be out there?” He teased softly. Stan smiled slightly, he wondered what Sherman would think if he knew who he really was. Stanley Pines settling down in one town? He would've laughed at the thought.   
“Where's he getting buried?” Stan asked gesturing to the coffin. He really didn't wanna look at it again, each glance dropped another stone of guilt into his stomach, weighing him down.   
“Fairfield Cemetery, didn't they tell you?” Sherman asked.  
“Pa called, he wasn't in the talkin’ mood I guess.” Stan shrugged.   
“Speaking of which, we should get going with that.” Sherman muttered walking over to his father.


	8. Secret Codes and Lonely Letters

Stan didn't stick around for long after the funeral was over. He stayed in his childhood bedroom until morning where he took all of Stanford's books, then flew back to Oregon. The second he arrived home he ran right over to his figuring shit out table. On the plane he'd read about several different types of codes, he looked through his brother's journal. He thought he'd figured out how to decipher a code written in one of the pages. It read the following: 

“⊡୬∇_个Шコ⊡∃⚠_玉୬∇♢_%Ш⋑个⚠∇⊡∇⋰_玉엉⚠⚠_Ш个∇♢_∃_ị∃⊡∇玉∃凹_⊡Ш_엉♢↯엉♢엉⊡∇_♢∇玉_玉Ш⊐⚠⋰И_∃♢⋰_୬∇⊐∃⚠⋰_∃_♢∇玉_∇⊐∃_엉♢_⋑∃♢》엉♢⋰И_∵♢⋰∇⊐И⊡∃♢⋰엉♢ị_Ш↯_⊡୬∇_엉♢엉巾∇⊐И∇_个⚠∵И_엉⊡_玉엉⚠⚠_个⊐Ш8∃8⚠凹_ị∇⊡_ị엉⊐⚠И_⊡Ш_И⊡∃⊐⊡_⊡∃⚠》엉♢ị_⊡Ш_⋑∇_↯엉♢∃⚠⚠凹.”

According to one of Stanford’s books there was a sort of cipher where each symbols would be a different letter. He rewrote the code on a sheet of paper he ripped out of a notebook. The book he found under Stanford’s childhood bed said to start with repeating letters and short 1 to 3 letter words. He figured the “∃” was either an “a” or an “i.” He figured an “a” was more likely and went along with that, he figured if it didn’t make sense he could start over. The next thing he did was look at the repeating letter combinations. “⚠” was likely an “L,” “⊡୬∇” “the,” etc. The middle section was far harder than the top, so he was able to decipher the last few lines first. “It will probably get girls to start talking to me finally.” He read and laughed.  
“Good ol’ Sixer.” He chuckled, continuing to decipher the paragraph. It took him an entirety of five hours, but when he was done he felt so accomplished. It wasn’t even an important paragraph, but it didn’t matter, he felt smart for the first time ever. 

After translating that paragraph he was able to replace the symbols for letters everywhere else in the book, and decipher the whole book. He learned all sorts of secrets of the forsest just beyond the Murder Hut (which he really needed to rename). He learned it wasn’t actually all that dangerous as long as you were smart, most everything could be explained away by the locals too. Once he made it back to the Murder Hut (which he still should rename) he wrote a letter to Sherman, suggesting that Bertie indeed come over for the summer, he was after all, getting lonely and he really wanted to meet the kid.


	9. Planes, Rain, and Automobiles

Bertie wasn’t the most average kid, he was smaller than a lot of the boys in his little town in South Jersey. It was a small town, not like the one his dad had grown up in though, no sea view, no dreaming about sailing to freedom with his brother. Mostly since he had no brother. The town Bertie grew up in was a farming town, his parents weren’t farmers though, making him a weirdo, in a town that constantly smelled of cow manure.

He was a lot like his uncle, a fan of all things weird, for no reason other than the post cards he always got. Three headed sheep, one eyed cats, and five legged cows were a few of his favorite photos, but the stories Stanford told him were beyond those levels of weirdness, hunting the Kraken on Japanese whaling ships, tracking through mongolia after giant “Death Worms” it was all out of a fantasy book (actually it was out of a textbook Stanford wrote, but that’s another story). So when his dad told him he was going to hang out with Uncle Stan for the summer, he was practically beside himself with excitement. He actually got packed the day he heard, despite finals not even being over yet. 

When time came around for him to take the solo plane flight across country he wasn’t even scared to board himself (ok maybe a little worried). He’d never been the most comfortable flyer, and without his mother to cling to, well, he made quick friends with the little old lady sitting to his left. He told her all about his trip and his uncle, showing off the cryptids textbook he’d been gifted for christmas the year before. The old lady was probably rather annoyed after the aes long flight, but she hid it all very well. 

Stan had actually forgotten about the letter, having now renamed the Murder Hut to the Mystery Shack, he’d gotten tons more service. People were beginning to stop off the highway to come take a look at the weird and wonderful things he had collected and stuffed. They really enjoyed his tour, and he found himself up late at night writing new puns rather than sleeping. Luckily he’d set an alarm the day Bertie was to show up, Stanford had a machine that alarmed only at a certain time on a certain date down in his workshop. At first Stan forgot the reason for the alarm, but quickly gathered his thoughts, shooed the guests from the Mystery Shack, and drove to the airport. It was the next town over so he had to take a bit of a drive. 

Stan wondered to himself if he had the right day after an hour of standing with a sign that read “Burtie Pines” at the reuniting section of the airport. Perhaps the plane has simply been delayed, He thought to himself, or maybe he isn’t coming because you’re a murderer, the other side of his brain argued. He shook his head, clearing it of the thought. He didn’t need this right now, the worry about his nephew alone was enough to make his stomach curdle, he didn’t need the biting guilt along with it.   
“Uncle Stanford!” a tween yelled running over, hands open wide.  
“It’s Stan, buddy, but how are you doing?” Stan said, trying to shrug out of the hug as quickly as possible, but of course the kid hung on.   
“I’m great, how are you? The trip was crazy by the way, we saw Yellowstone, I think there was a moose, though it might’ve been a weird tree! A’course I think it was moving, maybe just a deer–” He rambled on excitedly until Stan cut him off.   
“Oh boy, there kiddo, slow down,” Stan laughed.   
“Sorry, how are you?” Bertie asked.  
“Pretty good,” He chuckled tossing the sign in the garbage as they walked out to his clunky new-used car.   
“What are we gonna do this summer? Swimming, hunting weird things and stuff?”  
“Don’t say and stuff, just say weird things,” Stan grumbled, unlocking the car, he was reverting back to his standoffish personality as he quickly became overwhelmed by the kid’s excitement. Bertie’s shoulders slumped slightly as he was quickly deflated.  
“Oh, sorry,” He said. Stan sat in the driver’s seat, thinking to himself about how terrible he was for destroying the kid’s excitement so quickly, but it quickly became too late for him to apologize.   
“Well are we?” Bertie asked.  
“Maybe, it all depends on how busy I get, but there are a lot of kids in town, your age, you should get to know them,” He said starting the car and driving towards the Mystery Shack off the next exit. There was a cruddy looking sign made out of plywood at the exit that read “Visit the Mystery Shack Today.” Bertie got excited looking at it as they turned off the exit.   
“What’s the Mystery Shack?” He asked.   
“That’s my museum,” Stan said, “The Smithsonian won’t take it so I’ll make my own,” He said with a grimace. The second they got across the town line, where the road went from crappy state, to crappier town road, there was a wall of rain. All throughout town there was rain.   
“That’s so cool!” Bertie said, practically out of the window looking at the town.   
“Sit down, kid,” Stan said pulling him back in by the belt loop, remembering all too well the time a drugged up Rick Sanchez fell out the window of a car on the highway during a police chase. He rubbed his nose awkwardly, probably not the best story to tell the kid.   
“Whoa look at those woods!” Bertie gasped as they approached the Shack. “I bet there’s tons of Sasquatch in there!”   
“Sascrotch?” Stan asked before he was able to catch himself.   
“No!” Bertie giggled, “like Big Foot,” He said, Stan laughed himself a bit nervous like.   
“Of course, I was just… testing you,” he said. “Well here we are, get out,” He said stopping the car near the Bottomless Pit rather than the building itself to try and break the conversation direction.   
“Oh cool a bottomless pit?!” Bertie yelled skipping over.   
“Careful, don’t fall in!” He said thinking he should really put a fence up, the sign wasn’t enough, especially in the rain, making the mud all slippery. 

Stan lead his nephew into the Shack, carrying his luggage over the uneven, muddy ground, using it as a makeshift umbrella. He set Burtie up in the attic, getting the bed all ready as the kid bounced around to the pitter patter of the rain on the roof.   
“This is so great!” the kid was saying, “It’s like my own secret hideout!” He jumped around some more.   
“Glad you like it, kid,” Stan said tired by the kid’s energy, and it wasn’t even six yet, man he felt old.


End file.
